


I've been thinking about it for a while.

by Helenish



Series: Here is a thing that isn't happening. [6]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, underage mumble mumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/pseuds/Helenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One hell of a shiner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've been thinking about it for a while.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Myślałem o tym od dawna](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063390) by [Donnie_Engelvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donnie_Engelvin/pseuds/Donnie_Engelvin)



Well, shit, Arthur thinks, dabbing carefully at his split lip in the bathroom mirror. He's going to have one hell of a shiner; Mal will tease him about it for days. He pulls up his undershirt to inspect the spreading bruise on his stomach; grinning a little in spite of himself at the way Eames took him down, the control in his movements, no hesitation or sloppiness even though his voice had been shaking with anger.

In the mirror, Arthur sees his grin fade. He’ll fix it in the morning, he thinks. Apologize to Eames for treating him like a kid--unfair, when he more than pulls his weight on jobs. Advise him that it’s usually kinder to keep unnervingly perceptive insights about your friends’ shortcomings to yourself. Maybe he’ll even be able to coax Eames into making pancakes.

He puts himself to bed with a bag of frozen strawberries on his eye but dozes fitfully until he hears the quiet click of the back door--Eames, coming home. In the morning, he thinks again, and falls asleep.

Eames isn’t home when he wakes up. Arthur makes pancakes, burning half of them, waiting for him to show up, and finally calls Mal.

"He isn’t here," Mal says. "I haven’t seen him since the job."

"Oh," Arthur says tightly.

"What is it?" Mal says. "Arthur, tell me the two of you did not have some sort of stupid boy fight."

"Mal--"

"You are ridiculous, the both of you," Mal says, "how could you hit him, his beautiful face."

"Actually, I took the beat-down," Arthur says. "It was my beautiful face."

"That’s good," Mal says. "I’m sure you deserved it."

"Will you just--if he shows up, can you ask him to call me?" Arthur says.

"Of course," Mal says, softening. "I’m sure he’s just--I am certain it will be fine," she says.

Arthur never goes in Eames’ bedroom, never touches his things, never sits on the bed to talk. When they work, they sit in the living room, Eames sprawled out on the couch and Arthur in the armchair, or they spread out everything on the kitchen table and work together while Eames makes recipes from the books Mal lends him. Eames used to do schoolwork while Arthur pulled together research, read transcripts of phone conversations, stared at shifting bank balances, but lately it’s just been work, Eames chopping carrots and onions and leaning over Arthur’s shoulder to point at a phone record, say, "What’s he talking about here, he doesn’t even have a sister."

Eames has left for a few days before, never without a note or phone call, but they didn’t exactly part on good terms, Arthur tells himself. He forces himself to wait, to get a little work done. It’s dusk before he finally swings Eames’ bedroom door open again, some part of him thinking Eames will be asleep, curled tightly in bed, or sitting at his desk, but the room is empty, bed neatly made.

Arthur swallows and steps into the room. Some of Eames’ clothes are gone from the closet, his backpack, his winter coat. There’s a shoebox on the desk, the cover dented, the cardboard fuzzy with age and handling. It is, Arthur realizes, the box from the first decent pair of dress shoes he bought for Eames, the ones Eames thought were uncomfortable and stupid and overpriced, but wore anyway.

There’s a folded piece of notepaper on top of the shoebox. It says: _Arthur._

Arthur unfolds it. His hands are very steady.

 _Arthur,_ the letter says, in Eames’ careful handwriting. _I'm sorry I hit you, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of the things I said._

 _I'm not leaving because we had a fight. I've been thinking it about it for a while. Don't worry about me_ \--this part is underlined-- _I'll be fine. Tell Mal and Dom thanks and I'll miss them._

 _I really learned a lot from you. You were really nice to me when you didn't have to be and I'll always remember everything you tried to teach me and I'll be careful. Don't worry. Thanks for all the clothes and food and I'll pay you back for everything when I can._

 _I'll miss you._ This part is scratched out and then written back in and underlined with two sharp stabbing lines.

 _Eames_

Arthur sits down on the bed. He doesn’t read the note again.

The shoebox is full of money, creased fives and singles, and a neat stash of almost entirely unopened envelopes, the manila envelopes Arthur always uses to split up the take from jobs, the ‘E’ on the outside in his own angular scrawl.

*

Eames has been gone for four months before Arthur gets the first college acceptance letter. They’d fought about it, Eames saying he wasn’t going and Arthur couldn’t make him, Arthur trying to be reasonable, then yelling, then finally giving up. He hadn’t even known Eames had applied anywhere.

Arthur puts them on Eames’ desk.

*

In the fall, Dom smiles at him and says, "I have a line on a new guy who’s pulled off a string of risky jobs. Apparently he’s a genius and no one can figure out where he came from."

Mal claps her hands. "I told you," she says to Arthur. "Let’s go get him, where is he?"

"No," Arthur says. "We shouldn’t bother him."

"Arthur," Mal says reprovingly. "You are not still angry at him."

"No," Arthur says. "But he doesn’t need us barging in on him, he can obviously handle himself. He’ll. If he needs us, he knows where to find us."

"Oh my darling," Mal says, but she doesn’t mention Eames again.

**Author's Note:**

> I am pretty sure I stole the shoebox from Sandy Keene's amazing [_The Wrong Band_](http://suitableforframing.mediawood.net/twb0.htm), and I'd do it again and again. I've stolen it already a hundred times in my heart and mind, there's a secret shoebox in every story I write.


End file.
